


Surprise!

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [15]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is So Done, Author has written about sleep way too many times already so what's one more?, Batdad, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Crack, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Everyone is tired sans Alfred, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim and Alfred: Bruce y u no sleep???, Tim is a pure bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 01:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20899751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Bruce learns the tough-love way that if you're out of commission, you can't do the mission.





	Surprise!

It’s thirty seconds before Bruce deigns to talk. “Alright. You have my attention. What’s this about?”

“You’ll see,” Tim chirps from somewhere to his right, still holding him by the arm and leading him forward. It’s dumb. Bruce knows the Manor like the back of his hand, so why the blind fold was necessary is entirely lost on him. Alfred is looming somewhere to his left, though, obviously in on the whole charade, which means that Bruce can’t do anything more than comply with an “I’m suffering” sigh, and yes, he really is suffering.

“Left turn here, sir.”

Bruce can tell they’re on the third floor, having just gotten off the main foyer staircase. The sound of shifting kevlar plates, Tim and himself still in their vigilante gear minus the masks, and footfalls on the hallway runner is all Bruce can hear. Maybe, just maybe, he can notice the air coming through the vents too, but he’s not sure if that’s simply the audible rush of blood in his head or not. Bruce hasn’t slept for a while—too many cases to work on, which has translated into a vague illness that may or may not involve running a temperature. It still stands that there's too much work to do, however, and as soon as this shenanigan is over with, that’s where he’s getting back to: the Cave and a string of arson cases. (He’s been smelling like smoke for days now.) All Bruce knows at the moment, though, is that there’s supposed to be a surprise up here. He tolerates the idea purely because Tim wouldn’t stop shooting him pleading, kicked-puppy expressions. And well, _ Alfred _.

Tim gingerly pulls his forearm to the right, and Bruce obeys. A doorway opens, the faintest temperature change chasing chills over the back of his neck. The blindfold hikes up a fraction when Bruce’s nose crinkles in a frown, because he knows this room. He was here just the other week.

“Let me get this off you,” Tim’s voice comes from his side again, timbre strained. The boy’s fingers tighten their grip on Bruce’s arm, not painful but noticeable, and Bruce imagines that Tim is off-balance on his tip-toes, envisions the crease of the boy’s brow as he gropes blindly for the blindfold. (Oh, how the tables have turned.) Eventually, Bruce leans down enough for Tim to actually succeed. The teenager whips the band off with a happy, “Surprise!” and yep. 

It’s Bruce’s bedroom.

Bruce’s eyes scroll over the space. Nothing looks different than he remembers. Then again, he hasn’t been here for a while.

“What did you do?” the man grunts, somewhat accusatory but mostly just suspicious.

“It’s your bed,” Tim grins, flaring his arms out at the Alaska King as if it might as well be gift wrapped. Bruce scrutinizes the furniture piece for an eternal second. A platoon of pillows are still conquering the top half of the mattress, the bottom half smoothed over by a comforter and a chenille throw that Alfred decided would look nice. It looks untouched. 

Bruce inches closer anyway. His expression is bland skepticism as he prods at the blankets with his fingertips in sharp motions. It’s a silly suspicion, but he’s expecting someone—maybe Dick—to pop out of the spread like a person out of a cake. Nothing happens, though. Bruce is infinitely grateful for that.

“It certainly is my bed,” Bruce affirms seriously, putting the question to rest before drifting back to the exit. Tim emits this surprised kind of squawk before scrambling after him.

“Wait!” the boy barks, skidding in front of the doorway so Bruce has to stop. “Where are you going?”

“Back to work.”

Alfred pipes in from the corner of the room, already tugging the curtains closed. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, sir.”

An eye squint. "What do you mean?”

Tim beams, so eager to spill the details that he looks like he might actually split in half. “See, that’s the surprise: I phoned in to Dick and Babs last night, and they said they could handle Firefly. You can take the night off!"

Bruce levels something that’s not quite Alfred’s deadpan but is in the same ballpark. Tim’s enthusiasm melts subtly into a nervous laugh, and it’s the true head of the house that comes to his rescue. 

Alfred clears his throat from the corner. (Because really, that’s all it takes.) “I'm afraid it's true, Master Bruce: As of this moment, you are on bedrest." The man snaps the last curtain closed. "My heart _ bleeds _for you."

Bruce tries to work up a counter-argument, but with Alfred, it's tit for tat, sass for sass, and he's struggling to concoct an equivalent response. Alfred just smiles. _ I dare you _, it says.

"Seriously, it's okay, B," Tim intercedes with a good-natured pat on his arm, somehow unscathed by the mental combat occurring here. "I'll be out there too as back-up, so you've got nothing to worry about. And besides, your bed looks like the comfiest thing on the planet. It's a shame to just let it rot up here. I mean..." Tim gestures to the mammoth furniture piece again before flop-sitting on the end of it as if to prove the point. And okay, maybe a point does get made. Just that small amount of impact is enough to send the pillows scurrying out of formation in distress like they're bugging out. Alfred's nose crinkles when a neckroll dives to the floor. 

"I understand your concern," Bruce says diplomatically, "but this will have to wait until tomorrow. I have a plan already in motion to catch—"

"Mr. Garfield Lynns?" Alfred finishes smoothly. "Yes, those plans have long since been dispatched to Miss Gordon. She sends her regards."

Bruce doesn't gawk at anything, but if he were a weaker man, he thinks he would be right now. The only evidence of that is the deepening squint to his eyes. Maybe he really could use a few hours, because his brain isn't keeping up with the conversation like it should and it seems his corneas are trying to compensate.

After letting the turn of events fully sink in, Alfred dips his head decisively. "I believe you're now sufficiently convinced, so I'll take my leave. Come along, Master Timothy."

"..."

Both Bruce and Alfred stand-off while waiting for the sound of footsteps. Ultimately, their expressions melt into identical looks of confusion. Nothing's happened.

"Tim?" Bruce asks, turning, because no one just _ decides _ not to answer Alfred when he prompts them. Evidently, Tim didn't even get the choice. The fourteen-year-old's exactly where he was when they saw him last, only now on his back, star-fished, and snoring just the tiniest bit. In other words, out cold. 

Bruce likes to think that, five seconds ago, he wasn't too tired, but now that the prospect is shoved in his face, his brain is shooting out telegrams saying a horizontal surface is an excellent idea. Bruce's mettle is steadfast, though. He's not so easy to break.

Meanwhile, Alfred's simply sighed under his breath. "Not again," he says, and Bruce gets the vague impression they did a dry-run of this little intervention earlier. Either way, the development adds up to the same thing: So much for Nightwing having back-up.

It's a chance Bruce wants to capitalize on—if only Alfred would let him.

After rubbing at his temples like he has a Guinness-worthy migraine, the self-same man clasps his hands together. "Regardless of what you may be thinking, sir, this does not address the issue of you not having slept for three days." Bruce opens his mouth, but Alfred interjects. "I will be sure to drop Mr. Kent a line to give you proper peace of mind, but for the next eight hours, at least try to rest. In this matter, I think it might be wise for the master to learn from the…" Alfred sends a withering look in Tim's direction. The teen is verging on the unconscious in a way that is actually kind of concerning. "...um, _ student _."

Bruce finally relents, unsnapping his cape from his shoulders and throwing it over the seat of a chaise. "Fine. Eight hours. But that's it. I swear, if something goes wrong in that time…"

Alfred merely pauses in the doorway to cup a hand behind his ear. "'Me thought I heard a voice cry,'" the older man quotes with all due grandiloquence, apt to throw the book at him (_ Macbeth _, in this case). Bruce hates it when he does that.*

As soon as the door closes, Bruce huffs through his nose. "I hope you're happy, Tim. You betrayed me for a despot."

Tim doesn't reply in words, simply throws out the arm that had previously been draped over his stomach. Bruce stares him down for a minute, attempting to telekinetically move the teen, because one, Bruce is exhausted, and two, despite how large Alaska Kings are, Tim has now managed to stick a limb in every quadrant of the bed. To Bruce's chagrin, his staring strategy isn't quite cutting it.

The man shuffles awkwardly, struggling to conjure up a new plan of attack, before ultimately stuffing his arms underneath the kid and fork-lifting him to the other side of the bed so that Bruce can at least sit down. Once he does, he immediately gets the feeling that eight hours is too conservative a time frame. All of his muscle groups are informing him ten years rest, minimum, is in order. He's almost tempted to oblige, but he wants to clear the air first. Alfred's long gone by now, so Bruce feels it's time to call the kid on it.

"Tim," Bruce says, plucking off his own boots and setting them on the floor. "You can stop pretending now. I know you don't snore."

After an eternal, almost-hopeful moment, there's a groan of defeat, and Bruce turns to see Tim up, reclined on his elbows. "In my defense, I told Alfred I'm not a good actor," Tim offers, ruffling the bed head out of his hair like it's a personal offense. "Power of suggestion works better when you're younger, he said."

"That it does."

"Well?" Tim asks. Bruce just looks at him so Tim clarifies. "You know, did it make you any more tired? Gonna pass out for a few hours now and not work yourself into the ground?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow as if telling the teen to put it together himself.

Scowling, Tim finishes smoothing his hair back into place (which, truth be told, still looks like bed head, but Bruce isn't going to point that out) before clambering off. "Okay, okay. I get it. You want to patrol. But Alfred's right on this: Three days straight isn't good for you, so please just _ consider _ getting some sleep? It's my job to watch your back, and you really don't make it easy."

Bruce doesn't think about their partnership in those terms often (Most of the time, it's the other way around.), but he can see Tim's serious in what he's saying. It's both humbling and flattering, having someone that dedicated, but more importantly, Bruce can't help it when his eyes stutter over the sliver of a scar just below Tim's hairline, testimony to a close call the other month. It reminds Bruce that he's always one step away from losing another Robin, and his head swims at the mere thought. Still, Bruce reasons, Tim won't grow if Bruce doesn't allow him to. It doesn't make the idea any less scary, though.

"Keep close to Nightwing," Bruce prescribes. Tim's face flashes a shock-joy mix at the sentence, even as Bruce continues, "Anything he or Oracle says, you do to a T—no questions asked. Am I understood?"

"Yeah! I mean...yes sir." Tim pauses, glancing off to the side before looking back. "Does...that mean you're staying then?"

Bruce nods, digging around for that one pillow that's better than all the other ones. "Just keep out of trouble if you can."

Tim grins. He's obviously eager to prove himself, because he backpedals out of the room so fast that he only narrowly remembers to open the door. "You got it, B. I won't let you down!" 

Bruce waves him off tiredly, the man's brain deciding that now's a good time to ask if he wants fatigue or headache with his influenza. Still, Bruce can't help but smirk when he hears Tim yes out a fistpump from the other side of the door.

"Kids," the man condemns half-heartedly, shaking his head before burying his face in a pillow. What would he do without them?

**Author's Note:**

> *"Me thought I heard a voice cry, sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep! The innocent sleep." (AKA "Ain't no rest for the wicked.")


End file.
